My Mountain

General George Washington stood right here and scanned the valley below.

From here, I see the expanse that he saw, too. My view is dotted with glinty lights of neighborhoods and blips of movement on the main road. His was blackness, save the glow of lanterns from the not-so- far-away British camp, set for the night but undoubtedly plotting plunder for the colonists come daybreak.

I am atop Washington Rock, in my town.

“The Mountain.”

From this vantage point I see spectacular sunrises, full moons of all monikers, and to the east – the skyline of lower Manhattan.

This mountain provides our town with valley and mountain neighborhoods all within one close- knit community.

This mountain offers us two weather zones: rain in the valley and snow on the mountaintop. On other days – pea soup fog on the mountain, and clear sailing down below, in town.

This mountain – and the two roads that narrowly traverse it up and down – deliver their fair share of school closings for the passengers in the stalwart yellow buses that inch their way up and down it with their priceless cargo.

This mountain is soft red – dotted with the buds of a thousand trees – in the spring, covers itself with a swaying leafy canopy in summer, fiery flames in autumn, and then proffers up a brilliant star on its crown each winter – a singular light in the darkness.

Steeped in history, resplendent with beauty, it is the backdrop of our lives.

This mountain.